The Giant Boy is now at the stage when, at Christmastide, the only things he would want to find in a stocking are a grand in used notes and Kelly Brook. So I don't have to creep about at 2am filling tights up with felt-tip pens and Lego any more, but I do have to somehow find "Christmas clothes" for him. This is an ancient Liverpool tradition dating back to,oooh, 2009, I think. It dictates that parents,or in my case, parent, pull enormous amounts of cash out of the air to buy designer gear with large ponies on it. This is in addition to Christmas presents, you understand. I don't know from girls, but the boys are all on-line, checking and re-assessing the relative merits of polo shirts and massively expensive canvas shoes. Or "plimsolls", as they were in my youth. I am then updated via Blackberry as to whom has what bought for whom, and shown photographs. Honestly, they are worse than the most diva-esque supermodel. I can applaud dandyism, and positively encourage sartorial elegance. I am also keenly aware that this conflict has been bubbling away in various forms since the Fall of Rome. Harassed Ancient Roman parents (of course they didn't KNOW they were Ancient Romans at that point, although I bet their children referred to them as such) were probably saying "So, why do you need a COMPLETELY different toga and sandals to go to the Coliseum, it will only come back covered in beast blood and sawdust? Well, I don't care if Lavinius's father has bought him one embroidered with gold, he made a packet sacking Sicily, didn't he? "
Of course it is only recently that special clothes for young people existed, anyway. If you were a Tudor teen, or indeed, baby; you were firmly stuffed into a ruff and a bodice,sewn into two outfits a year and your parent's servants threw herbs at you to conceal the niff. There are lots of portraits showing youthful Dukes sulking in white tights,or smirking in brocade pantaloons. Their acne had been painted out by the court portraitist. Pre-Restoration, there were probably heated arguments re ringlets and lace collars, with Cavalier adolescents trying to rebel against foppery and velvet by going out and getting a New Model Army haircut. But everyone was really too busy improving their life expectancy for teenagers to be invented, youngsters went from infant to fully-dressed adult without so much as a whimper. Whatever angst they had, they kept it to themselves or wrote poems about it in Latin,if they were toffs. Then came the Fifties, and the teenager was invented, by a Mr Chuck Haley or somesuch. Since then none of us have had any peace.
I didn't like being one,it didn't suit my temperament at all. My teenage photographs show a Neapolitan 35-year-old prostitute with a huge bust, when all my friends were Sara Moon-faced waifs. The GB seems to be getting into it more; but I fear that his tastes are so fearfully expensive that ONE of us will have to go on the streets. I am hoping,without much evidence, that he will tire of looking like an American millionaire preppy, reeking of Hugo Boss, and will become alternative in some way. He can't be a Goth, he is far too robust, and has a raucous, filthy laugh. He doesn't give a tuppenny damn about the planet, or saving the whelk. I don't think my original aspiration , which was for him to be a gay fashion designer,is going to happen. Despite my brother's predictions to the contrary, entirely based on the incident in which he glimpsed the Giant Baby in a lilac cardigan bought for him by one of my camper friends.
Well, he is off to do work experience in London, in January. He has already requested a suit in which to masquerade as an adult.
I had better go and earn some money, like Mildred Pierce did when faced with her daughter's endless demands for fine clothing. Except there aren't any diners round here, and even if they were I doubt that a shortsighted arsonist is what they require. If you hear of an opening, do let me know.
Of course it is only recently that special clothes for young people existed, anyway. If you were a Tudor teen, or indeed, baby; you were firmly stuffed into a ruff and a bodice,sewn into two outfits a year and your parent's servants threw herbs at you to conceal the niff. There are lots of portraits showing youthful Dukes sulking in white tights,or smirking in brocade pantaloons. Their acne had been painted out by the court portraitist. Pre-Restoration, there were probably heated arguments re ringlets and lace collars, with Cavalier adolescents trying to rebel against foppery and velvet by going out and getting a New Model Army haircut. But everyone was really too busy improving their life expectancy for teenagers to be invented, youngsters went from infant to fully-dressed adult without so much as a whimper. Whatever angst they had, they kept it to themselves or wrote poems about it in Latin,if they were toffs. Then came the Fifties, and the teenager was invented, by a Mr Chuck Haley or somesuch. Since then none of us have had any peace.
I didn't like being one,it didn't suit my temperament at all. My teenage photographs show a Neapolitan 35-year-old prostitute with a huge bust, when all my friends were Sara Moon-faced waifs. The GB seems to be getting into it more; but I fear that his tastes are so fearfully expensive that ONE of us will have to go on the streets. I am hoping,without much evidence, that he will tire of looking like an American millionaire preppy, reeking of Hugo Boss, and will become alternative in some way. He can't be a Goth, he is far too robust, and has a raucous, filthy laugh. He doesn't give a tuppenny damn about the planet, or saving the whelk. I don't think my original aspiration , which was for him to be a gay fashion designer,is going to happen. Despite my brother's predictions to the contrary, entirely based on the incident in which he glimpsed the Giant Baby in a lilac cardigan bought for him by one of my camper friends.
Well, he is off to do work experience in London, in January. He has already requested a suit in which to masquerade as an adult.
I had better go and earn some money, like Mildred Pierce did when faced with her daughter's endless demands for fine clothing. Except there aren't any diners round here, and even if they were I doubt that a shortsighted arsonist is what they require. If you hear of an opening, do let me know.
No comments:
Post a Comment